


slip

by braigwen_s



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ableism, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon Disabled Character, Canon-Typical Prejudice, Gen, Loyalty, Mild Angst, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-15
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:35:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27571642
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braigwen_s/pseuds/braigwen_s
Summary: Contrary to established and documented fact, the Dark Clerks did, in fact, exist.  When one says something awful - in fact, some things awful, plural - about Lord Vetinari's mobility, Rufus Drumknott must deal with the the consequences of of the Clerk's tongue.
Relationships: Rufus Drumknott & Havelock Vetinari
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	slip

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't write any actual slurs directly, but please be aware they are described.

Contrary to established and documented fact, the Dark Clerks did, in fact, exist. Currently a small number were working in their natural habitat, which was a large and dry-aired room underground on Palace grounds, dotted neatly with desks and filing cabinets. Three or four of them were talking, quietly, and the rest were listening. Another Clerk moved through the room, distributing towering stacks of paper to the desks. The tallest stack went to a person who had hitherto not been speaking, one Archibald Trace. Trace accepted the stack with a nod, opened the first file, and was evidently disgusted by what he saw, as he let out a string of Quite Interesting Language against his ultimate employer. Not the Shift Supervisor, not Mister Drumknott….. the Man Upstairs. Lord Vetinari.

This in itself wasn’t so rare – everyone in the city, except, apparently, Captain Carrot, had done so on occasion – and invective and death wishes were generally tolerated. Even among the Dark Clerks, some recreational or businesslike swearing in regards to momentary sentiments about the Patrician passed with no more than a sideways glance or a cough. But swearing was tolerated. Death wishes would get a Clerk watched much more carefully for a few months. Things that were neither, things that were not generalised damnations and were instead callpoints of bigotry, were given no room to thrive. A former Dark Clerk called Tanny Backsworth, for instance, had been dismissed without notice after, uncomfortable with the fact that Lord Vetinari wore makeup, she had uttered the word “invert”. A few days after that, she had disappeared entirely. The Dark Clerks were chosen for their skills, but any who stayed for long enough were infected with the disease called loyalty. Tragically, being privy to so much of the inner workings and privileged information of Vetinari’s Ankh-Morpork turned their heads, and they started to like the man.

What had, just now, flown out of a Clerk’s mouth and into the ears of other Clerks was not in regards to how neatly Lord Vetinari may or may not fit into stereotypical gender norms, or in regards to whichever gender Lord Vetinari may or may not prefer the social company of. Instead, it was in regards to … well.

The Dark Clerks had only been established in non-existence for a little under three years when the then leader of the Assassins’ Guild had stood on the Tower of Art, aimed a weapon, and fired at Lord Vetinari. No Dark Clerks had been there at the Tower, on on the road, or attending the wedding the Patrician had been travelling to. They were all at the Palace, and only found out hours later that they nearly had a regime change, that Lord Vetinari almost bled out in the Groom’s arms, and then in the Archancellor's. Nobody had been there. The roles and duties of the Dark Clerks had grown massively since then, of course, but back then were was nothing any could do, except of course Mister Drumknott. Medicine in the city was poor – this was before the Lady Sybil Free Hospital – and somehow, in a week, the world of the Palace found itself turned upside-down. The Patrician’s leg had been broken, and its muscles and tendons torn to threads, and it would not recover. With time, the wound would – and had – healed, but no more would he walk smoothly and silently, and no more would he run thirty miles without stopping. Now, every step was calculated and uneven, and he relied upon a cane and, occasionally, Mister Rufus Drumknott’s arm. Part of the Dark Clerks’ job had been downplaying this to the populace, and they’d found themselves spinning and spreading lies about cane-swords and blood of enemies. To do their job correctly, some information had needed to filter down. Lord Vetinari could mask his gait, and could run for a short distance, but he paid for it with interest the next day. He was in constant agony. He had loved to dance, and to gallop across rooftops, and now he found himself confined to doing neither, unless it was necessary.

Nobody would call their old granny awful names because it was harder for her to get around. Lord Vetinari was far, far more deadly than a granny. The young human man known as Archibald Trace found the room around him very, very still, and so utterly silent it absorbed sound like a black hole. And then, the worst happened.

A shadow stepped out of the shadows, and the shadows melted away into the small and unassuming frame of Mister Drumknott, Rufus Drumknott, chief of Clerks and personal secretary to the Patrician. Rufus Drumknott was staring right at Trace’s eyes, and his hands were folded behind his back. All of the Clerks present sat or stood a little straighter at the sight of their boss. “Thank you for working with us, Mister Trace,” he said.

Another Clerk appeared holding Trace’s quill pens, which had been on his desk a second ago, and pressed them into his hands. They did this with some force, bending the quills. “Sir –” said Trace, looking around him. “What is this?”  
  
Rufus Drumknott’s hands did not move from their place behind his back, and his silent little boots made no noise, but suddenly he had approached him and was standing a mere three-and-a-half-feet feet from his face. He was staring at him with perfectly neutral intensity, but the set of his shoulders revealed him to people who were used to working with him (which almost all of the Clerks were); he was very, very angry. “I am firing you,” he said, his voice utterly even and smooth.

“It was just one slip-up!” protested Trace. He knew a death sentence when it was staring neutrally at him from three-and-a-half feet away. Former Dark Clerks were dangerous to keep lying around, even if leashed, and this was not what could be termed an ‘honourable discharge’. They had information, not least of which that they existed. His eyes were wild, but he was holding his ground. To hope to earn oneself a reprieve was a logical behaviour of a logical person corner-backed. However, the Dark Clerks were not known for compromise, not that they were known for anything whatsoever, and Archibald Trace was surrounded by them.

“I am sure you think it is short-sighted of me,” said Rufus, and pushed his glasses back up his nose. They had not been slipping, unlike Trace. Than any residual or polite trace of amiability vanished, wiped from his face less like a slate with a damp cloth and more like a wet paintjob with a high-pressure bucket chain. “Mister Trace, if you do not leave the Palace grounds right now, I fear you may have to be escorted.”

  
  


“Why did you terminate the employment of Archibald Trace last evening?”

Rufus had been waiting for the question all day. He had practically been marinating in it, which he was not personally wounded by, but did take slight offence to. It wasn’t that His Lordship had wanted him to marinate, per se, it was that he had deemed it necessary for him to do so. It wasn’t necessary. He could be trusted, and more than that, he mostly was. It was irregular behaviour from His Lordship, as it could just as easily have been discussed in the morning, so there was no logical reason to allow it to wait – or at least, not that Rufus could see. His answer had marinated, too. There would be a lovely broth by now, he permitted himself to think, but did not go as far in the metaphor as His Lordship may have been inclined to; he did not name ingredients, for example. “The Dark Clerks have zero tolerance for bigotry,” he said.

“As voted by One, Drumknott?” asked His Lordship. His hands were folded together, instead of holding a quill pen or steepled. This meant that he was definitely stressed.

As voted for the One, thought Rufus, though he, of course, did not say so. As decided, by me, for you. But it was also a common-sense arrangement; people whose work involved, more often than not, encouraging social and economic progress should not have in their numbers the people they were working to have pruned out. “My lord –” he began. He paused momentarily to gather his thoughts. While he was corralling them, His Lordship interrupted him. His Lordship interrupting was a rare occurrence with anyone, let alone Rufus. He upgraded his internal assessment of His Lordship’s current emotional state from ‘stressed’ to ‘distressed’.

“What word did he use? One beginning with an ‘L,’ perhaps?”

Those words, ‘lame’ and ‘limp,’ were simple factual descriptors, and it was only context that made them bigoted. “Yes, my lord,” said Rufus, reluctantly.

“‘L-I’ or ‘L-A’?” His Lordship’s voice had a tint of morbid curiosity, similar to when, once, after a nearer than usual miss with a would-be assassin, he had asked Rufus to describe the appearance of the wound where a knife had skittered over his shoulder-blade. Rufus had been faintly disturbed by the interest he expressed, because it had seemed more personal than professional; it had struck him as being not masochistic, but perhaps self-flagellatory.

“Both, my lord,” said Rufus, even more reluctantly.

“Ah. Anything else? A ‘C,’ perhaps?”

That word, four letters long and ending in ‘P,’ was a highly offensive one. If it were possible to do such a thing as squirm miserably, Rufus would be giving a perfect demonstration. There was recognisable hurt, now, in the way that His Lordship tilted his head. The worst thing was, he hadn’t. He had said something that was even worse. And now Rufus had to watch His Lordship realise this. Rufus hated this situation. He hated having to tell His Lordship this. He hated that it happened, but, even more than that, that His Lordship had to know. This was hurting His Lordship, and Rufus wanted to curl up into a ball and also to take Archibald Trace back so he could fire him again. “Dear me,” said His Lordship, not a ‘G’?”

That was another word four letters long, ending in ‘P’. both of them had ‘I’ as their sole vowel. “Can’t you get somebody else to tell you, sir?” Rufus pleaded.

“Have I angered you, Drumknott?”

Had he – had he angered – Rufus briefly, fleetingly, understood Commander Vimes’ habit of punching the wall just outside the Oblong Office. He forced himself to be sensible, and he thought through the question. His first thought was that he was, indeed, angry at His Lordship, for insisting upon knowing these things when Rufus had been there and had seen them and part of his job was knowing things for His Lordship. His second thought was that he was angry, but not at His Lordship, but because he was upset knowing that His Lordship was hurt and had been spoken about in such a way he was associating the feeling of anger with him. His third thought was the conclusion he arrived at, and thus the one that he gave voice to. “No, my lord. Archibald Trace angered me, sir.”

His Lordship did not make a reply, although Rufus waited for three minutes. It occurred to him that there was no insight, wry or ironic or sincere, that he could gift to Rufus. This was okay with Rufus, although he felt slightly bereft. It wasn’t okay that His Lordship had none to gift to himself. There was nothing Rufus could say either, of course, that would be even vaguely instructive. In a moment he knew was uncharacteristic of himself, he said something anyway. “I am sorry, my lord,” he said.

His Lordship sighed, and his hands were untangled. “Yes,” he agreed.

Rufus made tea for him in his ‘greatest boss’ mug.


End file.
